


Portrait of a Lady

by addie_cakes



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Bad Husband Robert Lightwood, Frustrated Maryse Lightwood, Gen, Good Parent Maryse Lightwood, Good Parent Robert Lightwood, Magnus Bane Deserves Nice Things, Magnus doesn't interact with little Lightwoods, Understanding, Young Izzy and Alec, let's not go there, some canon divergence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-08-20 06:29:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20223346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/addie_cakes/pseuds/addie_cakes
Summary: "'And youth is cruel, and has no remorse. And smiles at situations which it cannot see.' I smile, of course, And go on drinking tea." —T.S. Eliot***Young mother Maryse Lightwood is stressed, and Magnus Bane, the warlock who's only supposed to be fixing the wards at the Institute, offers friendly conversation and a small reprieve.





	Portrait of a Lady

Maryse loves her children.

But she doesn’t always like them.

Isabelle is fussy today, caused by a mixture of the “terrible twos” and a light fever drowning out her usual bubbly demeanor. Rather than become lethargic, or even mildly annoying, Isabelle has simply become grouchy, and Alec—sweet, stubborn, clingy Alec—is the current object of her ire. The younger Lightwood continues to reach out to smack her brother with her chubby, grubby hands, her little fingers the exact shape of malnourished baby carrots; Alec, in turn, endures each slap with increasing impatience. As much as he looks at his little sister like she’s a gift from the literal heavens, she’s also, at the end of the day, his little sister. And when Izzy’s hand, as-mentioned-previously sticky from her morning pancakes that she refused to let Maryse feed her, catches in his hair, Alec retaliates with a light shove.

Rolling onto her stomach, Isabelle is shocked into silence for a moment, and Maryse, even with all her Shadowhunter training, doesn’t have enough time to consider the consequences of Alec’s push before the little girl’s eyes well up with fat, unshed tears. She pouts, hiccups, _glares _at Alec with such an intensity that Maryse sees a tiny reflection of herself and is nearly intimidated, and finally starts to cry.

Maryse would have felt sorry for her daughter, understanding that Isabelle is grumpy because she isn’t feeling well, had Isabelle not started screaming a millisecond after the tears began.

It’s at times like these that Maryse forgets why she ever wanted to have children. There was a time, not long ago (twelve minutes ago, to be exact), when the young woman was sure that her children were a perfect mixture of herself and Robert. She used to see Robert’s sensitivity and her determination in Alec. And in Isabelle, Maryse used to be sure that her daughter received her undying loyalty and Robert’s sweetness.

There are times for Maryse, as there are for any other young parent, when children become too much. But for the most part, she’s eternally grateful for her babies. Even when Maryse knows that her life’s been upturned by untimely exile from Alicante, she’s always had her children to ground her—if not for Alec, she might be dead, and if not for Isabelle, New York would be a dimmer city. Her children, angelic in more ways than the blood that runs through their veins, make her life livable. For all the things that have gone wrong in her life, they’re her right choices, her humanity, the loves of her life.

But when those little loves are waging war against each other, they’re devils, more dangerous than the ones she doesn’t believe exist, and she doesn’t like them.

Now, all Maryse knows is that both of her children, whether by her fault or someone else’s, are wishy-washy like their father, can’t decide if they want to be well-behaved or not. And she still loves them—she loves them so much it’s impossible to imagine loving any two people more than she loves them—but it’s suddenly naptime for the both of them.

With Isabelle’s outraged meltdown quickly approaching to a terminal degree, Maryse wastes no time in scooping the little girl into her arms, repositioning the toddler so she has a free hand to gently corral Alec down the hallway with her. Alec only protests when he realizes that he’s being deposited in his room, especially because he is keenly aware of the fact that he’s not the one who started his and Izzy’s feud. And as much as he’s frustrated with his little sister, he is still unfortunately afflicted with a big brother’s obsession with his baby sibling. In his mind, if Izzy is out of his eyesight, she’s disappeared off the face of the earth.

Childhood paranoia is vicious, Maryse thinks, pausing to kiss the top of Alec’s head. It’s her sign that she’s not mad at him, and really not even mad at Isabelle, but she’s acknowledging that the two need time apart. At least, she hopes she conveys it all in a simple kiss; if anyone could decipher that to its intended meaning, however, it would be Alec, who looks up at her with large, pensive hazel eyes. He moves to argue, to start babbling and stumbling through his words in a way that the child can only assume sounds like intelligent debate, but Maryse closes the door behind her, keeping it open just a crack, before walking the appropriate ten steps it takes to get to Isabelle’s nursery.

Maryse needs her privacy sometimes, and often, her children do, as well. When she whisks them away to their rooms, she never closes the door. Maybe in Alicante, when appearances meant everything and children were to be seen and not heard, she would have, but in New York—where Maryse still has to double-check that security is functioning and that the Clave hasn’t sent someone to the Institute to finish handing down a punishment Maryse and Robert deserve—she can’t. If her children need her, and both Alec and Izzy have shown a proclivity to want to be near their parents during their every waking moment, then she’s entirely willing to bust down walls to get to them. Really, then, it only stands to reason that she keeps the doors open in the first place, to protect the integrity of the Institute’s structure. She wouldn’t want to damage the building, after all.

She lowers Isabelle into her crib, stopping to press the back of her hand to the toddler’s forehead, then against her cheek with a gentle touch. Isabelle isn’t burning up, her cheeks aren’t even red—Maryse isn’t sure she’s _sick_so much as she’s exhausted and upset.

Izzy’s ailment seems like an adult problem to have, Maryse muses, but of course Isabelle’s already proving to be a difficult one. Maryse returns her hand to her side, looking down at her daughter.

Now Isabelle—she’s Maryse’s twin, through and through. Alec was also fortunate enough to gain his mother’s hairline, hair color, and hair texture, but he’s got his father’s eyes—not necessarily in color, but in _aura_, no matter how much of a mundane-granola-mother that makes Maryse seem. Alec is thoughtful, if not sensitive. Isabelle, on the other hand, has Maryse’s dark brown eyes, the scrutinizing ones, that are as warm as they are intense. But Izzy isn’t quite like Maryse. She isn’t judgmental, as much as an unhappy baby can’t be, and she isn’t cruel. She’s a child, with childlike kindness, though Maryse is convinced that Isabelle’s kindness, though currently trapped under a layer of bad attitude, is an inherent one.

As she leaves, Maryse dims the lights and turns on Izzy’s white noise machine. The sound of gentle rainfall fills the space, and the woman smiles to herself as Isabelle plops onto her mattress pad, resigned to the fate that is nap time.

In a perfect world, Maryse would use this reprieve to catch a nap of her own, but she didn’t even nap when she was pregnant with Isabelle—there’s no way she’s starting now. The young woman walks down the halls, her low heels clicking against the tiled floor, and she considers going to see Robert in his office before remembering that she’s mad at him. Luckily, she always seems to be mad at him, or Robert perceives that she is, so she doesn’t have to explain, nor does he have to ask.

She loves her husband, too, but that doesn’t mean she likes him, either.

Without anything else to occupy her attention, Maryse decides to check in on the newest security measures that are currently being added to the Institute. It was her idea—most of the innovations in the building have been, since Robert has as much initiative as a dead man—after a demon hunt had led to demons following and prowling too close to the Institute.

Realistically, now that the threat has passed, Maryse knows that they’re as safe as they’ve ever been. But it’s knowing that she and her family are always being watched, both by the Clave and apparently by demons and Downworlders, that makes the young mother want to secure her home further. And while thinking of the Institute as a “home” is a concept that may remain forever foreign to her, she’s unable to deny the fact that her children see New York as their home.

She won’t be able to protect them forever, as her children’s Shadowhunter training will start sooner rather than later, but for what she can provide now, she’s willing.

That doesn’t mean, however, that she has to enjoy letting a warlock into the Institute to strengthen the wards. A warlock who, she thinks bitterly as she walks into the kitchen to first make herself a cup of tea, charges too much for what she considers to be a simple service. Yes, she might have employed the best warlock in Brooklyn (begrudgingly, and not because she actually believes it—it’s simply what he has printed on his business card, though even Maryse supposes that being the “High Warlock” of anywhere implies that said warlock is in fact the best warlock in the area), but he doesn’t have to be pretentious about his prices.

Magnus Bane doesn’t look busy at all, Maryse notes, though she doesn’t miss the sideways look he gives her. If nothing else, she can appreciate his ability to observe, to talk and work at the same time.

Today, as with every time she sees the man, he’s wearing something gaudy and expensive. Gaudy, at least, for her own taste, and certainly for Robert’s. Magnus is sporting a burgundy shirt, fitted at the shoulders and loose on the sleeves with a dark brown vest. His pants, Maryse observes, are dark and tight, and she stares at his form for a few seconds before pressing her lips together.

Maryse clears her throat. “How much longer will you be?” she asks, and if his earlier glance were noticeable, then the very unsubtle roll of his eyes is even more obvious.

“You know what they say about perfection,” he answers in an even tone.

Maryse reasonably knows that the answer is some maddening reply like _perfection can’t be rushed_, but she wants her Institute back to herself. Robert is cooped up in the office today, supposedly working on important matters, though she suspects he’s just using the free time to catch up on further dawdling.

With an unimpressed hum, Maryse dips her teabag further into her mug. The drink is too watered down to truly be considered anything more than flavored water, but she refuses to let Magnus see her distaste for it.

Smiling, clearly amused, Magnus says, “Oh, you didn’t have to bring me anything.”

Maryse’s frown tightens to a thin line, and she makes a noise of recognition before taking a long sip of her drink. The tea-water is hot enough to burn her tongue, and it does, but Maryse refuses to show that, either. She lowers the cup, licking her lips to alleviate some of the pain, and Magnus raises his eyebrows in a knowing sort of way.

She really can’t stand him.

“I didn’t.”

“I can see that,” he says with a huff of laughter. This time, he glances over at her without any sort of disdain in his expression. “Ah, but—I really should be out of here in a few minutes. These wards weren’t too tricky, and the Institute should be as safe as ever now.” He looks particularly proud of himself and of his magical prowess, and Maryse—for all she dislikes Magnus—recognizes the utility of his visit.

He’s a stranger to her, and she to him, but at least they could speak civilly for this business transaction.

Nodding, Maryse looks around the room. With hers (and Robert’s, but mostly hers) upgrades to the Institute, it seems like less of an aged church and more like an actual surveillance quarter a Shadowhunter might find in Idris. She’s proud of the work she’s done, proud of the life she’s made with Robert in New York, no matter how forced the circumstances. And, even when they’re bent on driving her crazy, she’s proud of her children, who now have a safer home with wards that won’t break down in the near future.

“Well, that’s…good,” she finally says. She considers taking another sip of her tea before remembering the burn from earlier and decides against it.

Perhaps it’s a little unfair of Maryse to be annoyed when Magnus looks surprised by the half-hearted compliment, but she’s already been in a sour mood the whole day that she can’t find it within herself to offer many niceties.

“It is,” he agrees. His hands glow blue with his magic, but he waves the wisps of ethereal smoke away before turning back to Maryse. “Does Robert want to discuss this, too?”

“I can handle the Institute’s affairs on my own,” she snaps back.

Magnus’ mouth is dropped open as he’s lost for words, but he pulls himself together in record timing. “Of course—yes, I—look at me, person assigning patriarchal expectations, that’s not fair to you.” For all he must dislike Maryse (and this dislike is, of course, a mutual feeling), Magnus is open-minded. What is more is that he doesn’t seem to doubt her capabilities as the head of the Institute.

For the first time today, Maryse is grateful for Magnus’ presence.

“…is something wrong?” Magnus asks after a moment’s hesitation. He looks resigned; Maryse can legitimately see how much he dreads asking about her personal life, how much he really doesn’t care or doesn’t _want to care_, but unfortunately, Magnus Bane is a remarkably nice person, and he’s even nice to people he doesn’t like.

He’s infuriating.

Unwilling to offer any sort of answer that makes her seem any weaker to him, Maryse shakes her head. She clenches and unclenches her jaw, feels the muscles in her neck tighten, but doesn’t look away from Magnus. To avert her gaze would be to admit that she’s lying, and Maryse—Maryse, who’s been denied a life with the world she knows, who’s stuck in a marriage with the kindest man who wants to fuck anyone but her, who is too young and too stupid to protect her family without a warlock’s help—is rather too adept at lying.

Magnus looks at her, scrutinizing, but nods. “Just the same.” He’s not going to press the matter, and for the second time, Maryse is thankful. Magnus makes a large motion to rap his knuckles against the floor before humming, pleased. “…that was just for effect,” he says almost sheepishly. When Maryse only offers a raised eyebrow, he clears his throat. “I—well, I didn’t have to do that, I just—I like showmanship.”

Raking her gaze over Magnus’ outfit once more, Maryse has to agree with his observation. He does.

Because he hasn’t learned his lesson about starting awkward conversation with his already-irritated employer, Magnus asks, “Keeping busy?”

Maryse isn’t sure what Magnus knows; she suspects he has a hand in everything and knows more about Maryse than she’d like, but like always, she doesn’t want to give herself away. All she says is, “They keep me on my toes.” It’s the least controlled and least refined thing she’s said all day, a promise of “them,” and not just a “Robert.” Even if Magnus doesn’t know that she has children, and she’d certainly prefer to keep it that way, he now knows that there’s more to Maryse’s immediate circle than just Robert.

And that knowledge is a lot of power to give anyone.

With a soft, friendly sort of smile, Magnus fishes in his pocket to pull out an ornate-looking pen. He flicks his wrist, and a sheet of paper appears in front of Maryse. She blinks, taken back, before taking the pen that Magnus has now offered her.

“I thought your contract said you wanted an upfront payment?”

Magnus shrugs nonchalantly. “Eh, we’ll call this the beginning of your tab. I’m sure you’re good for your word. Now, if I were speaking with your husband…”

Brow furrowing, Maryse says, “That means that you expect you’ll be hired back.” She finds the concept somewhat daring, even for someone as outgoing as Magnus—he’s been making a habit of keeping himself and fellow warlocks in hiding after Valentine’s rebellion, yet he’s here now, letting Maryse know, in a simple and kind gesture, that he’s available for more work.

She signs the paper with one hand, and the contract disappears as quickly as it appeared. Maryse has to physically fight back a smile at the wave of magic because, really, it’s ridiculous and unnecessary and only Magnus Bane would take the effort to conjure that spell for such a short moment. Nonetheless, she doesn’t smile.

“This was…very generous of you,” she says. She brings her teacup to her lips again, and this time, it’s only warm. When the liquid doesn’t burn, she feels at liberty to take a longer sip.

She supposes she can breathe, for the moment.

Magnus is nothing if not sincere. And extravagant, though that is an obvious observation. He moves toward the doorway, his hand resting against the frame. Turning to face her, he says, “We all need a break, every now and again.”

Though Magnus Bane occasionally appears to be the most upfront and honest person, Maryse is quickly beginning to learn that he has his mysteries about him. Without another word, he pivots on his feet and leaves, his shoes clicking against the tiled floor as he pulls away from where Maryse is still standing.

She doesn’t mean to stare at his back, but she does—those tight pants be damned. Rolling her eyes but unable to stop herself from smiling this time, Maryse cups her mug in both hands before leaving the room herself.

* * *

“How did those wards work out?” Robert asks later that night, as he adjusts Isabelle in her arms. The tiny girl giggles, her hands wrapped around one of his fingers, watching as Maryse tucks Alec into his bed. He leans his head forward so that Maryse can kiss it, and she presses her lips against his hair before she stands, taking another moment to run her fingers through his hair.

She doesn’t yet answer Robert’s question. Her children’s nighttime routines are more pressing. “I love you, sweetheart,” she smiles before she leads Robert outside the room, closing the door so that it rested open by a crack.

Glancing back at her husband, Maryse gives a noncommittal shrug of her shoulders. “It went fine. Magnus Bane is…overconfident.”

Robert chuckles under his breath and opens Isabelle’s bedroom door. “Well, as long as the job gets done, I guess we can’t complain.”

As Robert lowers Izzy into her crib, Maryse reaches out to rest her hand against his forearm. Turning his head toward her, the man offers a small smile.

“We’re doing a good job with them,” he assures Maryse before he takes a step closer, kissing Maryse’s forehead.

Maryse knows that Robert loves her; he makes it evident. But loving someone doesn’t equal being loyal to someone, and Robert Lightwood is flaky. When Maryse senses that her husband’s been unfaithful, she thinks to herself that his kisses are like branding irons, hot and blinding and lingering. For the most part, Robert is like an ugly burn against her skin. He hurts her, she can’t wipe him away—but on the occasions that she trusts him, when she knows that the two of them are on the same page, being married to Robert is like coming home after a long and exhausting day of work.

What they have made together—pain, betrayal, children—is a family, and for all that it is good and bad, it’s theirs.

She nods, looking back down at Isabelle, who’s already starting to drift off into a restful sleep. She loves this little girl and her brother more than she's ever loved anything before. More than she loves Robert, more than she loved Valentine—she'll do anything to protect them, she's sure. And Robert, who loves her, also loves her children, and she loves him for it. For that reason alone, she knows she'll forgive him for everything, every time. For that, she suspects, Magnus is right—Robert deserves a break as much as she does.

Maryse leans over the crib to peck Isabelle's cheek and whispers a soft "I love you"; she touches Robert's shoulder and walks toward the wall, turning off the bedroom's lights.

“We’re keeping them safe."

**Author's Note:**

> Please feel free to talk to me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/addie_cakes_) I have like no friends so I'd love to talk Shadowhunter and other things with people!
> 
> This is based off the part at one convention where Harry and Nicola agreed that Magnus and Maryse might have had a little "thing" in the past. this is not so much a thing as Maryse being frustrated. But like, Magnus Bane is heart eyes and she knows it ;)


End file.
